Badass Dragons of the Wastelend - Round Eight Results


Round Eight: Showdown at Vasquez
[Read the action summary here in the Round Eight thread][1]

Looks like 5 of the 30 Repair Points went unclaimed, so we went and assigned them to Channing Hunter. Here’s a quick wrap-up of how the damage went down:

Channing Hunter - Escort

Those extra 5 RP brought her HP to her MaxHP of 83, so Channing was well-positioned to tow Clank into battle and face down Fleetwood and Toecutter. Her firepower combined with Toecutter’s flamethrower made mincemeat of Fleetwood and his Caddy, but not before Fleetwood’s considerable firepower nearly obliterated the sturdy red Hilux. 74HP of damage brings Channing down to 9HP.

Clankenstein - Mechanic
The old Dodge’s MaxHP is 31, but he’s been through so much over the last few rounds that it’s hard to say what his HP status was going into this round. Still, his structural integrity had taken a beating:

And his mirror gambit worked a treat… worked too well, as a matter of fact, since it led to Mad Mel putting a bullet straight through the windshield of what Mel perceived as his “stolen” Lincoln Futura:

Hit Points? That Dodge was a rolling skeleton already. The old Mechanic’s physical frame is at death’s door, his psychic connection severed from the shell of his faithful old Dodge and kept in this corporeal realm only through Clank’s iron will and his dogged faith in the Craftsman, whose first Commandment is and always has been Thou Shalt Not Scrap. Nothing is beyond repair to the Craftsman and His devotees.

But they got their work cut out for them this time. Clank has, for the sake of argument, 1HP. Technically.

Desmond Balthar - Scout

Having topped up his HPs, he and Bubba Zanetti took off for the rear entrance of Fleetwood’s HQ. Fast as they are, when they arrived, they found most of the fighting subsiding and a cease-fire called. Only a couple of Fleetwood’s minions did any damage before the firing stopped. 34HP remaining, but also the engine intake, air filter, etc. are all clogged with the dirty rear-entrance muck and will need to be cleaned.

Bubba Zanetti - Scout
Bubba, too, missed most of the action on the trip to the rear entrance. The overall plan was well-conceived and executed, but in retrospect, more good might have been done by helping Channing face off against the bosses. 44HP remaining, but also the engine intake, air filter, etc. are all clogged with the dirty rear-entrance muck and will need to be cleaned.

Major Jos. Talleyrand-LaRoche aka Joseph McCormack - Scout

The Major dealt more damage than he took, but the brass buttons on his dress uniform did take a bit of a scorching when Toecutter swung his flamethrower 'round.

He also caught a few rounds from Fleetwood’s guns, but not enough to put a hitch in #29’s giddyup. Not so you’d notice. 33HP remaining.

Jack Burton, Jr. (Him) - Mule
The redoubtable Freightliner used all the TQ our strongest remaining Mule could squeeze between two cheeks to tear through the gates of Fleetwood’s desert HQ like so much single-ply Charmin, leading Lemmy’s ghostly Metal Militia in earsplittingly noisy warfare against the unlettered leather-clad hordes of Fleetwood’s minions. Most of the fighting took place between foot soldiers armed with spiked bats, chainsaws, axes, the Majesty of Rock, and the Earnestness of Roll, but Junior and his E.A.R.A.C.H.E. just rolled on over everything, willy-nilly.

Not without cost: he’s down to 4HP out of his 55MaxHP.

Momo - Escort
Didn’t take any serious damage, largely because she’s never seen as a threat. Her radioactivity came in handy, though. I can’t think of another way the Gorn could have been brought down, so I apologize for that. 36HP remaining.

Sir Gonville De’Ath - Escort
His well-coordinated attack was exactly right. He barely took a scratch this time as he landed directly on top of Mad Mel, thanks to the Major’s sharpshooting. 63HP remaining.

"Honey" Mallone - Scout
Took no additional damage, but still low at 16HP remaining. She’s got the Kid at the moment, because…

Sally “Cougar” Kruger - Escort
Wrecked, at 0HP. Gorns are tough as telephone poles. Sally’s alive but comatose.

Now let’s see where we go from here.

( * ): posted in tribute to Blazer, RIP, and Cougar, vehicle totaled
[1]: Badass Dragons of the Wasteland - Round Eight


That’s what we always thought before and then Toecutter and his merry band always snuck out the back door.

Not our fault they finally decided to take a stand.

1 Like

So what happened to Bruce? And where is Wash?

1 Like

I’m sure this will buff right out.


I’m pretty sure Wash met up with Bubba in a dark alley somewhere.


I wonder if Bubba didn’t help Wash meet himself up his own dark alley!

Ha! God, how I make myself laugh! Just need … the trigger words! Haha!


From my vantage point, it appeared that Bruce was pointing his crossbow at Mad Mel when Mel met his fate from De’ath, and thus we assumed that Bruce met the same fate. However, that’s not entirely clear - I was a fair distance away, after all. We also don’t know where his autogyro is (assuming he has one and we’re not all just projecting this fact from our apparent collective knowledge of a pre-apocalypse post-apocalypse movie we probably didn’t see).



[brief squeal of feedback from a PA mic nearly drowned out by the whir of rotors]

“Hey! Hey-hey! Up here!”

All eyes rotate skyward.

“Look what I’ve got 'ere.”

“Now don’t nobody get any funny ideas about goin’ off half-cocked. We need to ‘ave a calm, cool discussion about all this, before anyone else gets ‘urt. All o’ you just lower yer weapons, and nobody else needs to end up like Mel here, or your Mechanic there. Mister Fleetwood might not be around to sign the paychecks anymore, and there’s been a fair amount of staff turnover in the past hour, but there are still plenty of hot guns on both side of the fence ‘ere, so let’s try to preserve what little civilization still exists in these rocks, hey? I perceive a bit of a power vacuum that might best be filled through negotiation. The Toecutter, he’s still got the shitbox and somethin’ to say that’s maybe worth hearin’. Maybe not. I don’t know much of anythin’, but a group with your ingenuity…”

The blades whir. Glances are exchanged. The pregnant pause drags on.

“This box is heavy. Don’t wait for me to drop it. The charges are large and spread over a surprisingly large area.”

The Kid steps forward and hollers up to the gyrocopter.

“Okay. We’re listening.”


Hey, uh, Brian, is it? Bruce, right, Bruce.

I know you’re new to this party and all, so I will do you the courtesy of clueing you in. We’ve salvaged a surprising number of RPGs along the way, and, funny thing is, I don’t remember that we’ve used many. Yet.

To cut a long story short, there’s no way out of here.

Unless you walk now.

While your little party box may take out some of us, it won’t take us out all. But we, we’re not going to walk. We’ve been loyal to this mission for the better part of a year, and lost many along the way. Between the leftover RPGs, 50 cals, and at least 2 MKII phasers, your little butterfly has only one chance at survival, so here it is:

Just walk.

Here, take all the LP I have.

This isn’t your party, and we don’t want to waste any more time on vultures.


You can’t be something you’re not.

Be yourself, by yourself.


“'Ey. I ‘eard o’ you. Quick mouth, somewhat slower judgment. Man after me own habits, t’tell the truth. I’ll just say this: a fella… a quick fella… might have a weapon down there. RPGs, 'eat-seekers, .50-cal sniping longrifles, what 'ave you. All I’ve got is this box 'ere.”

“It’s old, kinda rickety. No springs, stripped ratchet… the upshot is I hafta hold the plunger up. Pretty effective Dead-Man’s Switch. You shoot me outta the sky, before I touch ground this box’ll look like this:”

“And most of ye’ll be linin’ up right behind me at Saint Pete’s ticket window. Listen: nobody here wants that. Not you, and definitely not me. We’ve spilt enough mutated blood in this soil to warrant a Superfund action. Fleetwood’s dead. Your leader might as well be. If there’s to be a fight over a superintelligent dunny, it should be under controlled circumstances, the way all disputes have been settled in my neighborhood since my granddad’s day.”

“Now, let’s tend to the wounded, find us an able-bodied Wrench or two, and negotiate some terms.”

“Or… yeh can go ahead and pull yer triggers now. I’ll leave that up to you.”


Hey Kid

You see them wires dangling from that box up there in the sky

You reckon you’d be able to hit them… with… uh…what’s this


The 427 rumbled to a stop. It had been a mad dash to the back door, but Desmond had been burned enough times by people escaping out the rear that he’d wanted to head anyone off at the pass. He felt terrible at the state of Channing’s Hilux and Clank would need, well, probably a few pints of blood, thirty weight, and axle grease, probably in equal amounts.

But that would wait for later, right now a bunch of twitchy fingers were yelling at each other, one in a helicopter that thought he held all the cards and Junior. Always Junior. Who, to be fair, was raising some mighty good points.

“Hey. How about you put down your rock and I put down my sword and we try to kill each other like civilized people.” He shouted. “I mean, we’ve been at this an awful long damn time. We had a nice calm before the storm, but that seems to be cooling down right now.”

He took a breath. “Brian, Bruce, whatever, shut your cakehole. I don’t know what your loyalty here is to anyone and I don’t give a damn. Seems like you weren’t exactly here by your own volition until the Major’s shot freed you up. All I want, all we want, is that stupid smart box in the portajohn there and to be on our merry way. Junior is right about you just moving on, take license plates, whatever. We’re not holding all the cards, but we’ve got a lot of chips and we apparently like to fight a lot. And fight to win. Things are likely to go south in a hurry and you might not want to be here when they do.”

“Now Toecutter, it’s time for you to shit or get off the pot.”


Shitting and/or pot-dismounting may be discovered here.

1 Like